It's Always Summer
by unforth
Summary: There's something incredibly weird about Dean's blue-eyed school-mate. He doesn't know what it is, all he knows is that instead of being disturbed by it, he's intrigued, and he wants to know more about the kid - starting with his name. (Destiel; warning: underage, dub-con)


I participated in the a ficlet challenge in honor of Halloween, hosted by Tumblr user destielficletchallenge!

The theme for the challenge was **Monsters** ; everyone who signed up agreed to write a story within parameters given on the original call for submissions, about a monster assigned to us at random! (Parameters: must feature Dean/Cas, must integrate your assigned monster, must be between 2k words and 10k words. Stories due by November 15th at midnight; mine is late because my wife's grandmother died on Sunday night – I'm fine, we weren't close, but I'm sure she'd appreciate your condolences if you wish to say anything...I mean I appreciate them too but I also find them embarrassing since I'm not particularly upset...ANYWAY.)

My assigned monster was "Fairy folk."

This story was named after "The Way" by Fastball, which is a song that just SCREAMS fairies and fae-folk to me. :) The title is from the chorus:

 _Anyone could see that the road they walked on_

 _was paved in gold._

 _It's always summer, they'll never get cold._

 _They'll never get hungry,_

 _They'll never get old and gray._

 _You can their shadows wandering off somewhere._

 _They won't make it home_

 _But they really don't care._

 _They wanted the highway_

 _They're happier there today_

 _Today..._

WARNINGS: UNDERAGE ELEMENTS AND DUBIOUS CONSENT.

In truth, I'd say this story only barely qualifies for the underage warning - two 10 year olds kiss, and someone who is so-close-to-18-that-it's-quibbling has sex with an 18 year old.

However I am dead serious about the dubious consent tag. And I'm considering a sequel to this story that would include non-con.

Keep in mind that this was a horror/monster related prompt - "typical" horror isn't my forte, so I took an approach related to body autonomy/free will instead, which is right in my wheel house.

I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

 **It's Always Summer**

"Hey, um, that's my ball!" Dean didn't mean to sound so defensive about it. The slight, dark-haired boy had helped him out, stopped the kick ball before it rolled into the drainage ditch, before they'd have needed to get help from a teacher to get it back. Dean _was_ grateful, and he'd said so, but instead of the boy returning the ball, he'd picked it up, stopped and stared at it as if he'd never seen anything like it before. He ignored Dean standing there, ignored Dean's thanks. It wasn't _Dean's_ fault that the weird boy continued to stare at a dumb old ball while Dean waited, holding his hands out. It was just that the boy was—

Dean's breath caught as the boy looked up at him. His eyes were a shocking, piercing blue, his gaze so intense it felt heavy, like a grown-ups.

"I mean, if you want to – you could play with it too, if you want," Dean managed, toeing at the ground, looking away awkwardly.

"I don't know the game," said the boy quietly.

"It's just kick ball," Dean shrugged. The boy looked at him blankly. "Like baseball, but with your feet?" There wasn't a sign of understanding. "I could teach you."

"If you'd like," was the neutral answer as the boy finally handed Dean the ball back. There wasn't a flicker of interest on his face. No, Dean realized, the boy wasn't looking down at Dean as an adult would, he was looking _through_ Dean, as if Dean were the kick ball, or the grass, or the sky which matched the color, brightness and gleam of the boy's eyes.

"So…you don't want to play?" Dean tried and failed to bounce the ball against the sod. It made a dull, hollow rubber noise and stayed on the ground. The boy didn't answer and as the moment stretched out, Dean felt increasingly like he was the one doing something wrong. "Okay, uh, well, guess I'll see you around." He waited another moment to see if the strange boy would say anything else. Instead, the boy blinked slowly and quirked his head to one side like Dean's dog did when it was confused. The shiver that ran down Dean's spine was definitely due to the hint of winter cold in the breeze that stirred the fall leaves, and definitely not due to the fact that it was the first time the entire conversation the boy had blinked.

Pushing the encounter from his mind, Dean called to his friends, held up the ball to show them that he had it and ran to return to the game.

In the days that followed, Dean could swear he saw the blue-eyed boy _everywhere_ , which was weird because he couldn't recall ever noticing him before. Now that he was on the lookout, Dean saw the boy in the hallways, in the lunch room, during recess, during dismissal, all of the normal places he'd expect to see a fellow student. It was remarkable to Dean that he had failed to notice such an unusual, striking boy, but Benny had laughed when Dean had pointed out the new student. No, Benny said, he didn't know the boy's name but he was in Ms. Naomi's class and had been at the school since they'd all been in Kindergarten, five years. Somehow, Dean had missed him. He suspected it was the boy's practice of staring at the ground, keeping that mesmerizing blue gaze directed harmlessly downward.

If the boy had been in Ms. Naomi's class the whole time, that might be why Dean didn't know him. Ms. Naomi was stern, her glares intimidating; no matter how harmless Dean's actions he always felt like he'd been busted misbehaving when she looked at him, and she always found something to criticize – tuck in your shirt, Winchester, straighten your tie, button your jacket, how dare you get grass stains on your knees. Normally, the restrictions at the religious school didn't bother him, not even the uniform, but Ms. Naomi made him feel like he'd sinned just by waking up in the morning. Still, as intimidating as the matronly teacher was, Dean wasn't going to let _her_ deter him from finding out more about the boy. Dean felt bad for the kid; he didn't see was any evidence that the boy had friends, and none of Dean's friends knew anything about him.

Determined to confirm what Benny had told him and to learn what more he could, Dean cut a square of paper the same size as the memos the principal's office wrote and, in the middle of 4th period, went to Ms. Naomi's room and knocked. The plan: lure the boy out of the room, take him to one of the kindergarten classrooms while the younger students were out at lunch and talk to him – or at least find out his name!

"Come in!" came Ms. Naomi's sharp reply. Dean opened the door and flinched as every eye in the room turned towards him. Two in particular settled with laser focus, too blue to be real, the pale-skinned boy sitting rigid and proper in the first row, his hair near black in the fluorescent lights. "Yes, Mr. Winchester?"

"The principal asked me to get, uh…" Panic grabbed at Dean's throat. He didn't even know the boy's name, how could he ask the kid to leave the room with him? He really should have thought this plan through more. _Damn, damn, damn, damn, da—_

"Give me the note," she snapped, crossing the room regally and snatching the paper from Dean's hand. He'd expected her to become furious when she saw that it was blank, but instead her expression remained frosty and firm, her eyes an icy counterpart to the boy's. "You will report to the principal and tell him _exactly_ what you have done. And Mr. Winchester? I will know if you leave anything out. Please come to my room at lunch to begin your punishment."

Repressing angry grumbles, Dean sullenly went to the Principal's office. Mr. Crowley was angry at being interrupted, more angry that Dean had tried to use Mr. Crowley as part of his prank, and furious that he had to waste a single precious minute disciplining Dean. Less than an hour later found Dean back in Ms. Naomi's room bearing a bucket, a container of wood polish, and a large sponge; he was decked out in an over-large flimsy plastic apron, knee pads and enormous yellow rubber gloves. His punishment was to polish Ms. Naomi's floor. Tomorrow, he was to polish the floor in Mr. Raphael's room; the next day in Ms. Lilith's room; on and on until he'd done all 30 classrooms in the building. This was why Dean was afraid to cross Ms. Naomi: he'd been given a month's worth of detention over a harmless prank, a minute's disruption to her class. This had to have been the dumbest idea Dean ever had.

When Dean arrived at Ms. Naomi's room, the boy was sitting in the same chair, staring at his desk with _precisely_ the same expression as he'd worn when he looked at Dean the previous week. He didn't react when Dean came in, didn't react when Dean looked around the room and groaned, didn't react when Dean plopped to his knees directly before the boy's desk nor when Dean took a dollop of polish and began to work it into the floor.

"So, you got detention too?" Dean asked, taking out his anger on the floor. The boy didn't answer. Dean looked up and gaped when he met brilliant eyes staring through him. The smell of the polish was so powerful it choked him, he coughed, eyes closing.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Dean said around his coughs. "Yeah, I'm fine." A hand fell on his back and Dean started, triggering further spasms, Dean's eyes watering. Hesitantly, the hand soothed down his spine, easing away Dean's surprise, his tension and his coughs. "Uh…" He wiped a gloved wrist over his mouth and looked to see the boy down on one knee beside him, head quirked to the side again, expression…concerned? Confused? Dean wasn't sure. There was an emotion there, definitely, but he couldn't peg down what it was. "Thanks."

"No." Dean stared at the boy blankly. The slightest curve of a smile graced thin lips. "I don't have detention."

"Then why're you here?" asked Dean. He should move – shake off the hand, get to polishing the floor. There'd be hell to pay if he didn't finish by the end of lunch. The boy's touch was so comforting that Dean couldn't bring himself to move; he knelt on the hard wood, frozen in place by depthless blue eyes. _The ocean…Lake Tahoe…that plastic backing stuff they use on fish tanks…the sky on a fall evening…_ Every comparison fell short. He'd never seen anything like the boy's eyes. They were captivating.

"You did a good job on the floor," said Ms. Naomi begrudgingly. Dean jerked his head up to look at her. He was standing before her still wearing his cleaning gear. The room reeked of polish and Ms. Naomi was scowling. Dean had no memory of doing the polishing, no tell-tale aches from spending a half-hour on his knees. What would his dad say? Right – what the _fuck_ had happened? "I expect you to do as well on every other room in the building."

"Yes, Ms. Naomi," he managed, trying to mask his shock. He could hear the bustle of students moving in the halls, the clatter of lockers opening and closing, the rustle of bags being opened and closed, the whispers of those who were determined to speak even though no one was supposed to talk in between classes. Lunch was over. He'd scrubbed the floor and he couldn't remember doing it. Every memory was _blue_.

"Get to your next class, Winchester," she said with firm dismissiveness. Nodding, feeling as if he'd been released from a trap, Dean grabbed the cleaning things and turned to see the blue-eyed boy watching him. Curiosity and fear occupied equal parts in Dean's mind, the inescapable feeling that whatever had happened hadn't been _normal_ , hadn't been _natural_ , and that the boy had something to do with it.

He still didn't know the boy's name.

By the end of the day, he'd convinced himself it was all in his head. Polishing the floors was agonizingly boring. Of _course_ Dean had zoned out. It was a damn coping mechanism, anyone would have done the same in his place.

That night, he dreamed of blue.

The next day, Dean reported to Mr. Raphael's room, once more wearing the plastic apron, knee pads and gloves. He set to the task with a vengeance and was disappointed to find that he did not experience a repeat of his previous day. Dean swore every tick of the second hand on the clock was endless, his knees hurt despite the pads, his wrists ached, and the smell of the polish made his eyes burn and leak.

"Why are you doing that?" Dean was halfway done with the room, desks pushed aside to make way for him, when he heard the boy's familiar, light voice. Jerking his head around, he saw the child watching him from the door.

"Cause of _you_ ," he snapped, returning his attention to the floor. Ms. Naomi's room had probably passed quicker because he'd had company. Though he couldn't remember what he and the boy had talked about, they'd probably talked the whole time, making the minutes fly by. Not like today.

"I don't understand."

"I just wanted to know your damn _name_ ," Dean scowled at the floor, tackling a badly scratched spot with a large spurt of polish and vigorous scrubbing with his sponge. "It was stupid."

"Oh. You should have asked. My name is Castiel. What's your name?"

"Dean Michael Winchester," he grunted out as he used his whole body to work the polish into the floor.

"I'm happy to meet you, Dean Michael Winchester," the boy – Castiel – said with quiet formality. A shiver went down Dean's spine to hear his full name said so.

"Did I do anything, I don't know, _weird_ yesterday?" Dean asked desperately, tingling spreading down his arms like someone was dribbling cold water over his skin, the memory of blue overwhelming his sight.

"You polished the floor," praised Castiel. "You did a very good job." He sounded like he was talking to a favorite pet.

"Right," muttered Dean. "Right, of course." When Castiel said it, Dean almost thought he remembered, though none of the details were there, none of the aggravation or the aches or the boredom. "Did you help me?"

"No," said Castiel. Dean could feel eyes staring through him. He thought it should make him feel uncomfortable, but instead it felt strangely familiar. "If I did, and Ms. Naomi found out, you would have gotten in more trouble."

"Yeah, you shouldn't be talking to me now either." Dean got up, stretched painfully, and rearranged the chairs and desks so he could do the next section of floor. "You'll get detention again."

"I didn't have detention yesterday. I simply didn't feel like going outside. Ms. Naomi doesn't mind if I stay in the classroom. She knows I'll behave." Every word out of Castiel's mouth was matter-of-fact, mature in a way that belied the appearance that the boy was the same age as Dean. Maybe he was a little older? Maybe he'd been left back and wasn't supposed to be in fourth grade? That was impossible. Saint Mary's didn't take students who would get left back; they'd kick out someone who didn't meet the academic standards. Further, despite his looks, Castiel didn't _look_ older than Dean. He was taller, slimmer, but otherwise? It was just those blue eyes, too adult, too knowing, following Dean everywhere he went in the room.

 _So blue…so beautiful…_

"Thanks for your help today, Winchester," Mr. Raphael's stern look pinned Dean in place.

"Anytime, Mr. Raphael," Dean was less shocked at the transition today than he had been yesterday, better able to smile as if he weren't dazed and confused, better able to put on his usual cocky air as if the work he'd done was no big deal. His wrists had the dull ache from scrubbing so hard, his body hurt, but the floors were gleaming and perfect and once again he heard the tell-tale signs that lunch was over and his classmates were preparing to return to class. Castiel was gone.

Every day followed a similar pattern. Some days, Castiel would be in the room when Dean arrived. At those times, he rarely remembered starting to polish the floors, much less finishing. Other days, he got some amount of the way through – the day he did Mr. Marv's room, he nearly finished – before Castiel joined him. Invariably, they spoke a little bit, and invariably, at some point Dean zoned out and finished the room without realizing it, always returning to himself with the teacher thanking him for his time and reassuring him that they'd report to Mr. Crowley that Dean had done a satisfactory job on his detention.

By the end of the first week, Dean was convinced it was something Castiel was doing. By the end of the second week he was debating whether he was being an idiot for questioning his good fortune. By the end of the third week, he wondered if he should go to the doctor – maybe it was the fumes going to his head? Maybe he was having an out of body experience? Maybe he was sick? Maybe it was a psychotic break? Maybe it was one of those like creepy 'lie back and think of England' things that he'd heard could happen to people? But there wasn't a mark on his body, he didn't feel sick, the only aches he had were easily traced to the physical exertion of polishing, and even those pains were fading as he grew accustomed to the effort. By the time he finished, he'd come full circle. Whatever was going on _definitely_ had something to do with Castiel, but Dean had absolutely no idea what that could be. Whatever was going on was impossible, which made it that much more difficult to pin down.

 _Right, because obviously if something is impossible, by definition it_ is not happening _._

Which brought Dean right back to his 'psychotic break' idea.

The Monday after he finished working on the floors was weird. November was coming on strong, fierce winds powerful, whipping up whirlwinds of fallings leaves, cold enough that he could _feel_ winter coming, like it might arrive the next day. Playing in the yard with his friends, Dean felt out of sorts. After a month of polishing floors, his routine had changed, his reflexes dulled. His friends were laughing at jokes he didn't get, reminiscing about things that had happened the previous week that Dean hadn't been involved in. He laughed along, because what else was he supposed to do? But he was angry. None of them asked how his detention had gone. None of them had even cared, they'd congratulated him on being done and then returned to their own gossip and excitement. Benny's family had gone to a football game on Sunday. Victor was bitter over a test he'd gotten back with a low grade. Jo regaled Dean with a story that started with a game of dodgeball and ended with Mrs. Hester splattered head to toe in mud. When Dean seemed considerably less enthused about this story than they, they summarily moved on. He'd never felt so invisible in his life.

 _Is this how Castiel feels all the time?_

He missed Castiel. He missed the intensity of the boy's focus, the brightness of his eyes. He missed the way Castiel dead-panned every single thing he said, how increasingly Dean recognized that some of those flat statements were actually jokes, that when they were, Castiel's eyes would glitter with mischief and positively glow when Dean recognized the humor and laughed. He missed having a friend who cared enough to visit him while he worked, to spend time with him, to risk detention rather than leave Dean to his own devices.

Sure, the way Castiel stared at him was a little unsettling, and the conviction that Castiel had something to do with Dean's mysterious floor polishing exploits was unsettling. The conclusion that something about Castiel was different was inescapable. For a month, Dean had been trying to figure out if _different_ was _bad_. Now, shivering under the onslaught of the wind, standing in the outfield bored as not a single ball came his way, Dean distractedly realized that there was nothing at all wrong with different. In fact, he liked different. He liked Castiel. He searched the expanse of the field for his friend, his _real_ friend, trying to spot Castiel's dark hair – surely all messed up from the wind – and his bright blue eyes. Scanning the crowds of playing children, though, he couldn't spot him.

Pain burst in the side of Dean's head. Instantly, his sight filled with blue – the pale sky, wispy clouds skittering overhead. There was a strange taste in his mouth, metallic and unfamiliar.

"Dean!"

Disoriented, Dean tried to get up, but the moment he moved his head the world spun and he collapsed back. He was lying on the ground, he realized belatedly, cold damp seeping into his school uniform, grass tickling at a patch of bared skin exposed between his pants and shirt. A rush as of wind made the sound of people calling his name seem far away and abstract, his mind reeled and felt separate from his body, and Dean felt a twinge of panic that he couldn't stand up.

"Stay away!" The voice was that of a child but spoke with all the depth and authority of an adult, and even though Dean's hearing obscured the words, he knew that Castiel was the one who had spoken, Castiel who had moved to protect him.

 _Protect me from what? What do I need protection from?_

"Dean?" Blue eyes replaced the blue sky, warmth like the sun shone from Castiel's worried frown, and Dean's fear ebbed. Dean had never seen so much emotion on Castiel's face, his eyes pinched with distress, his brow furrowed. "Dean, are you alright?"

"Hey, Cas," he mumbled. Liquid caught in his throat and he coughed. Red drops splattered onto Castiel's face, beautifully crimson against the boy's pale skin.

"I'm going to help you up, Dean," said Castiel.

"Yeah, that's fine, that's—" Dean broke off as nodding his head caused the world to spin, his sight to narrow to two points of blue. _As long as I focus on his eyes, I'll be fine. Castiel won't let anything happen to me._

"I won't let anything happen to you," Castiel repeated.

 _Repeated? Did I say that out loud? Did I—_?

One of Castiel's arms slipped under between Dean's back and the ground, encircling his waist. The other cradled the back of Dean's head. With unexpected strength, Castiel helped Dean into a sitting position. Hot liquid gathered around Dean's lips, trailed from the corner of his mouth. Raising a hand to wipe it away, his fingers came away red and he finally registered that there was pain in his mouth distinct from that in his head and that he was bleeding.

"Yo, Dean, you okay?"

"Dean, dude, you were totally zoned!"

"Oh my God, I'm so so so so sorry!"

"Is that _blood_? Coooool."

The voices of Dean's friends washed over him, threatening him with dizziness as nausea caused his stomach to twist. Locking hands on each of Dean's shoulders, Castiel squatted in front of him and reassuring blue once again washed away all of the horrible distractions.

"Focus on me, Dean Michael Winchester."

" 'Kay, Cas." The firm way Castiel said Dean's full name sounded like a lifeline. Dean grabbed a hold, felt himself steadying, felt comforted.

"I'm going to take care of you."

"Know you will…" Dean smiled, eyes swimming, blood dripping from his chin.

"What the hell are you—" The sound of another voice intruding on their conversation brought back the flickers of panic. Dean's head pounded agony and the rushing in his ears amplified.

"I'm taking Dean back to the school building," Castiel harshly interrupted whoever had tried to interject. Dean couldn't even tell who it was, all he knew was that he felt better as soon as his could focus all his attention on Castiel once more.

"Who are—"

"Castiel." His voice was so quelling, so sharp, that no one else said anything as Castiel wrapped an arm beneath each of Dean's and helped him to his feet. Dean's vision went in and out of focus and he swooned against Castiel's body. Instantly, warmth suffused him, and he couldn't resist rubbing against his friend's heat.

 _Eyes like the sky, skin like the sun, warmth like a summer day...Cas is so nice..._

"Sorry," Dean mumbled.

"Put your arm around my shoulders," instructed Castiel. It took Dean three tries before Dean could make his unresponsive arms lift. Castiel wrapped a reassuring arm around his waist and they walked side by side across the field towards the large, white washed school building. Without Castiel directly in front of him Dean felt awful, but their proximity gave him strength, and a voice whispered in his mind that after everything Castiel had done for him, this was something Dean could do for Castiel. He was had just enough rationality left to realize that made no sense, but he pushed that thought away as a distraction. Castiel wanted him to walk to the school, so Dean would walk to the school.

They entered through the door that led into the cafeteria, empty of people but disorientingly cluttered with the noises of dishes clattering in the kitchen and the reek of cheap food being prepared in ample quantities. Dean swallowed back vomit and blood.

"Cas, I—"

"Shh, it's okay, we're almost there."

 _Almost where?_ "Okay."

The hallways were vacant, students in other grades in their classes, the fourth and fifth graders at lunch. The nurse's office was at the far end of the long, plain-walled corridor, but instead of leading him there, Castiel turned into the stair case, practically carried Dean up the stairs, and pushed open a door that opened into space that was either a large closet or a small room, Dean couldn't say which. As soon as they were within, Castiel kicked the door closed and pressed Dean against it. Relief poured in the moment Dean could see Castiel's face again. The splatters of blood had dried black against Castiel's skin, a macabre imitation of the wash of freckles over Dean's nose, except for a thick crimson rivulet running from the corner of Castiel's mouth. Concerned, Dean lifted a hand and touched Castiel's blood. He stared at the bright red coating his finger, then returned his gaze to Castiel's wonderful, reassuring eyes. Castiel shuddered and met Dean's gaze.

"You're bleeding."

"So are you," Castiel's voice was tight. "My name is Castiel Jameson Novak. I need you to remember that. Okay, Dean?"

"Huh?"

"Repeat it: Castiel Jameson Novak."

"Castiel Jameson Novak," Dean mumbled.

Castiel gave a single firm nod and pressed his lips to Dean's. The first instant's shock immediately gave way to comfort and contentment. The dullness in his head, the pain in his mouth, the dizziness and nausea, all faded. Dean could still taste his own blood coating his mouth, a flavor that reminded him of the time he'd accepted a dare to eat dirt, but mixed with it was another taste that he struggled to define. Desperate to put a name to it, he opened his mouth and licked at Castiel's lips, instinctually certain that what he was trying to identify was something inherent to Castiel. Blood from Castiel's cut hit Dean's tongue and with it came more of the taste, washing away the unpleasant flavor of himself, replacing it with warmth like bread fresh out of the oven, joy like the bright sun hitting his skin, a smell like the dried flowers his mother decorated the house with all winter to remind them that summer would come again. Dean's eyes were open the entire time, staring into Castiel's, blue piercing his thoughts as Castiel's tongue tentatively traced Dean's mouth and flicked within. Unfamiliar heat radiated from where their lips met, eased the pain in his head, trickled through his limbs, pooled in his belly.

When Castiel pulled away, he was breathing heavily, eyes unfocused. "You're mine now," murmured Castiel with satisfaction, wiping blood from his mouth. The words were so soft Dean thought he must have heard them wrong.

"I don't—"

"How do you feel, Dean?" Castiel interrupted.

"Weird…I feel…" Dean stopped to consider his answer and found that, so far from feeling woozy and disoriented, he felt _fantastic_. "Good. Really good. Thanks, Cas."

"I told you I'd take care of you. I promise, I always will." Castiel brushed his lips over Dean's forehead, gently nudged Dean away from the door, and left. Bemused, Dean stared after him, untucking his shirt to clean the blood from his face.

When Mr. Raphael saw the red stains down Dean's shirt, he insisted Dean go to the nurse. The nurse cleaned him up and, shocked, declared him perfectly healthy.

The next day, Castiel didn't come to school.

Those first weeks, Dean searched the entire school for his friend every day. His other friends thought he was behaving strangely and blamed the injuries Dean had sustained when he'd been hit in the head by the kickball. All were confused that Dean was no longer hurt, that the nurse insisted the blood couldn't have been Dean's, that Dean hadn't even gotten in trouble for his destroyed uniform. Dean told no one what little he knew of the truth, instead insisting he'd not been injured at all. He _had_ been, but he was _certain_ that Castiel had cured him. Whoever Castiel was, _whatever_ Castiel was, not only could he polish floors without Dean having to do a thing, he could also heal whatever head injuries had caused Dean to feel so ill. Dean longed to ask Castiel about it – _Castiel Jameson Novak_ , the name echoed in his head like a promise – but there was no opportunity, for the beautiful blue-eyed boy, the first person Dean had ever kissed outside of games played by puzzled toddlers, was gone. Dean tried everything to find him, even breaking into the records office to find Castiel's school file and learn where he lived. There was no file bearing the name. It was like Castiel had never existed.

After Christmas break, Dean gave up. Returning to his former circle of friends was awkward, but by Easter everything was back to how it had always been. Dean pushed memories of Castiel away. At first, doing so felt like tearing a part of himself away but it got easier with time. By the time summer came around, Dean hardly thought of the other boy at all, though memories of the taste of Castiel's mouth and the smell of his skin stirred with the warmth and dryness of the season, with the brilliant green of new foliage and the deep blue of the evening sky. Frequently over the long, dull summer, Dean found himself staring up and losing minutes or even hours in reverie and longing for blue eyes.

Years spun by, seeming endless in the progression of day after day yet hardly spanning a moment when seen from the vantage point of Dean's freshman year of college. Elementary school faded to series of fond memories, ritualized into anecdotes of banner moments from the first day of Kindergarten to the time he super glued a whoopee cushion to Mr. Uriel's butt to graduation day when he and his friends had the disappointing experience of realizing that at they'd out grown the fun of Chuck E Cheese. Such tales were the stock fodder for the making of new friends as youth from all over met for the first time on campus, the stories repeated like ancient myths given, with other's stories received in return. One of Dean's favorites was how his first youthful crush had cured all that ailed him, though he always carefully omitted the gender of whom he'd first kissed. He also pretended, with the negligence of teenhood, that he didn't even recall the name of the person. After all, there had been _so_ many kisses since then.

There had been no kisses since then, though Dean was hard pressed to explain why. The memory of his lost friend lingered, the name _Castiel Jameson Novak_ one that he never spoke aloud but thought of surprisingly often. An affinity for men and women with blue eyes haunted him; wherever he went out, whenever he met new people, he found himself searching the room for the most dazzling pair he could find, but none ever belonged to who Dean sought – some too pale, others too dark, all lacking that distinctive glow of intensity, the feeling that Castiel _saw_ Dean, saw _into_ him, _through_ him, somehow encompassed everything that was _Dean_ in a single glance. Dean told himself he was absurd and tried to cure the bizarre crush by flirted shamelessly with this person or that – always blue eyed – but he always balked before closing the deal.

The further into his freshman year he got, the more Dean developed a complex about his inexplicable shyness. He was a good looking guy; he'd had plenty of people interested in him; he had played wingman for many of his friends. Few of those he knew had arrived at college virgins, and those who had were rapidly finding ways to rectify that and add sex to their list of life experiences. They enthusiastically shared their stories, how _awesome_ it was, the men boasting how long they lasted, the women smiling awkwardly as the declared how great they had felt. Dean knew that all of those first times couldn't be as spectacular as his friends let on, but nonetheless he felt left behind. The feeling stirred memories of a similar November eight years before when a month spent on detention had left him feeling lonely amongst friends who had been at his side for years. Those around Dean grew and changed, yet Dean felt trapped, waiting for something. Blue eyes flashed in Dean's memories.

 _Waiting for someone who I'll never see again._

"Alright, alright – I've got a good one – never have I ever…" Jo let the sentence dangle, let the entire group hang on her pause. She was the only of his friends from elementary school attending the same college as him, and she was instrumental in keeping Dean from brooding, dragging him out to frat parties, trying to hook him up with every hot chick who seemed interested, all while seeming oblivious to the fact that her presence – gorgeous, vivacious, blonde, blue-eyed and well-acquainted with him – deterred the majority of those who might flirt with Dean. Heck, that was part of why Dean stuck close to her, when she was around he didn't have to come up with as many inane excuses to avoid hook ups when he wasn't even sure _why_ he was avoiding them. "…never have I ever _kissed someone the same gender as me_!"

Instantly, over half of the people in the room sat down. Dean stayed up, Jo was also still standing, an eager man Dean didn't know was distributing shots to everyone who was on their feet, and Jo rounded on him with her eyes as wide as saucers. "Dean Winchester! No! You are _kidding_ , you've kissed a boy?" All eyes were on him and he blushed red as he defiantly took his shot and chugged it. It was his first drink of the night; so far most of his admissions had been mortifying in the other direction, that he was a virgin, that he hadn't received a blow job, that he'd never played Seven Minutes in Heaven, that he'd never been drunk. This was a confession Dean could _own_. However he felt about kissing Castiel, about Castiel kissing him, he would never be ashamed. The warm glow of cheap booze burned down his throat and settled pleasantly in his stomach.

"Who?" demanded Jo. Attention drifted from their discussion as the others yet standing took their drinks, laughed about their own experiences kissing boys and girls, got joshed or congratulated by their friends. One man, already damn drunk, declared loudly enough for the entire room to hear, _because I'm gay_!, earning him whoops and congratulations.

"Castiel," Dean said quietly, knowing the information of interest to no one else present. None of his new friends would know who the boy was. She looked at him blankly and shrugged as if the name meant nothing to her. Dean stared incredulously. How could _anyone_ forget Castiel? "He went to elementary school with us – he was in Ms. Naomi's class – dark hair, bright blue eyes, kinda tall for his age, slim – he left partway through fourth grade – Castiel Jameson Novak?" With each additional piece of information, Jo gave a small shake of her head to indicate she still had no idea who Dean was talking about. By the time he was finished, she was smirking.

"Well, he didn't make any impression on me, I'm sorry, but I can see he made one _heck_ of an impression on you," she said with affection, using two fingers to tweak Dean's nose. He colored and wondered how drunk she was. If he was lucky, she wouldn't remember anything about this in the morning. If he was unlucky, she'd spend the next three and a half years trying to hook him up with men as well as women – or men _instead_ of women. There was no way that Dean could tell her the truth, that _neither_ gender interested him. He'd seen the term "asexual" on the Internet as he'd tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with him, why no one he met aroused him, why even watching porn left him flaccid, why he only got hard imagining a single person who he hadn't seen _once_ post-puberty. When he felt generous with himself, he thought he might be asexual. When he felt less generous with himself, more broken, the word "pedophile" came uncomfortably to mind. He knew that was unfair to himself; it wasn't like he looked at underage youth and thought of them "like that," but he couldn't think of any other explanation for his fixation. It was like he had fucking imprinted on Castiel after that first kiss.

When the laughter and mockery and friendly railing finally faded in the wake of Jo's question, the person who had used the question as their opportunity to come out to their friends leapt up and asked another question, revealing far more about their personal experiences than they would have if they were sober. Dean gratefully sank down, and though the game proceeded around him Dean zoned out. He rarely let himself think about Castiel, _really_ think about him. It was such a short period in the eighteen years of his life, but it loomed larger, formative and essential. An image formed in his mind of how Castiel might look now. Tall, Dean thought; he'd been taller than Dean when they were children and Dean has nearly six feet and still growing. That deep brown hair would be longer, he bet, and now matched by a shadow of stubble. The boyishly high voice must have deepened; in Dean's imagination it was low and rough. The only feature that wouldn't be changed by time was his eyes, Dean was sure they'd still be perfect, endless blue, still would meet his with intensity, still would steal him away until he lost track of everything around him. Dean wrapped himself in the fantasy, imagined miraculously meeting Castiel again, imagined that Castiel remembered Dean as vividly as Dean remembered Castiel.

It was nearly 11 when they left the party. Dean did his chivalrous duty by Jo and saw her home; she was far too drunk to be safe on her own. When he had deposited her in his dorm room – she was babbling something about taking care of Dean's _problem_ as she tried to tug him into her bed – he locked her into the room, took a deep breath, and started the trip across campus back to his own dorm.

The evening outside was chill, the night strangely bright due to light reflecting off thick, low-hanging clouds. Blue lights attached to phone boxes made the world seemed washed in the color of the ocean, and the fantasy of Castiel rose unbidden to Dean's mind once more.

 _I'd love to see him again_.

"Hello, Dean."

 _Yeah, he'd sound a lot like that_. Turning, Dean was faced with the impossible, the coalescence of a phantom from his imagination. _He'd look just like that_.

He'd had more to drink than he realized.

Ignoring the hallucination, Dean used the scan tag on his keys to unlock the door to his dorm building. A buzzing growl tried to summon his attention behind him. _Now if I look I'll see a dog, I bet. Am I_ sure _I only had one shot_? Dean pulled the door open and stepped within.

Steps sounded behind him, powerful hands turned him around, a firm body matching him in height and slimness pressed him against the wall beside the door, and lips met his. Dazed, beyond amazed, Dean stared wide-eyed into perfect blue. Heat exploded through his body, dizzying in intensity. "Dean Michael Winchester. Don't you _dare_ ignore me."

"Castiel," he breathed. A weight beyond his comprehension lifted from his shoulders, from his soul, buoyed him until he felt euphoric as he drowned in Castiel's eyes. "You're real, you're…" Dean threw his arms around Castiel's shoulders – broader, now, muscles firm, God, he was _beautiful_ – and kissed him again. The remembered flavor of sunshine and warmth and new-grown grass, pure _summer_ , filled Dean's mouth, his nose, suffused every sense.

"Why haven't you spoken of me? Why haven't you said my name?" Castiel's angry, demanding tone was belied by the fervent way he kissed and nipped at Dean's lips. The combination of twinges of pain and stunning pleasure spun through Dean's head, mixed with the blue of Castiel's eyes and the wonderful sense of being encompassed in summer until Dean couldn't have said where he was. Surely, he must be standing in a field of wheat basking in the gorgeous sunlight radiating down from a stunningly clear sky.

"You left." Desperate for more of the flavor, Dean managed words between panting breaths and heady tastes of Castiel's lips, tantalizing brushes against Castiel's tongue. "You left me. I didn't know where you'd gone. I thought…" Embarrassment spiked and Dean quelled the admission, focusing instead in chasing the taste of sunshine into the recesses of Castiel's mouth. The expression in Castiel's eyes didn't change as he let Dean take what he craved, opened himself in the face of Dean's desperation, allowed Dean to surge from the wall and cling to Castiel.

 _God, I missed him, I need him, this is unreal it feels so good_ …

Gentle arms encircled Dean, held him close, encouraged Dean to rub his body wantonly against Castiel's. Easily taking control, Castiel withdrew enough to end the kiss and murmured tenderly, "I'm sorry, Dean." Fingers cradled the back of Dean's head, massaging his scalp, and with a happy sigh Dean lay his head on Castiel's shoulder. Castiel's other hand drifted down Dean's back, settled on his ass, urged him up. Somehow reading the suggestion in the gesture, Dean hopped and wrapped his legs around Castiel's waist, allowing the other boy to support his weight. Castiel made it seem effortless, carrying Dean though they must weigh nearly the same amount. "I had to leave. I always thought you'd call me back. I told you how, I told you my _name_ , but you never did."

"Wanted to," whispered Dean. _This isn't me, something is wrong._ "Thought you didn't want me." The only thing that was wrong were all the things that were _right_. "Thought that was why you left." The feelings flooding his body were those his friends talked about all the time, the heat searing his blood, the desire dizzying his thoughts, the hardness and arousal that made every brush of his cock against the fabric of his jeans exquisite. Chasing that feeling, he rutted his hips against Castiel's belly, drawing out pressure against his sensitive flesh. He could feel the hardness of Castiel's own erection against the lower part of his thighs. A soft moan drained the air from his lungs, eased him against solid chest as Castiel carried him easily down the hallways towards Dean's dorm room. _Nothing is wrong, this is how it's supposed to be. I'm not a child, neither of us are children. I'm not disgusting, I'm not broken. None of those other people were_ him _, that's why it didn't work_.

"Castiel Jameson Novak," he breathed against Castiel's neck. A shudder ran through Castiel.

"I've got you, Dean Michael Winchester," Castiel mouthed against the sensitive skin behind Dean's ear. Dean whimpered as pleasure seared behind his eyes, blanked his vision in blue, and heat and need surged through his body, through his cock. "I'll always take care of you." For an instant, something solid pressed against Dean's back, then gave way and without seeing a thing, Dean _knew_ they were in his dorm room, knew they were alone, knew they had privacy and seclusion and Dean could finally have the things he'd scarce allowed himself to dream about.

"I know you will," said Dean. Unsure what was about to happen, unsure what was going on, Dean felt like a crossroads had finally been reached, a moment that he'd been waiting for his entire life. _After this, things will never be the same_. A flicker of rational thought struggling against his euphoria, arousal, and bliss, tried to point out one more time that something was wrong, but Dean couldn't credit it. There was no way anything could be wrong when it felt so _perfect_. There was no way anything could be wrong when Castiel was there to take care of him. Leaning forward, Castiel positioned Dean on the narrow dormitory bed, laying Dean flat on his back, legs still tight around Castiel's waist. Castiel slid forward against Dean's body, brushing cloth against cloth, lips against lips, crotch against crotch, and Dean bucked up from the bed in pursuit of more of that feeling. Dean's jeans dug into his cock, bound his erection against his leg, and he groaned in frustration.

"I come of age today, Dean," Castiel's breathing grew heavier. "I was giving up hope that you'd ever call me. Today was the last day, my last chance, but I couldn't reveal myself to you unless you asked for me. I was going to have to return without you. It was killing me, Dean." Dean's jeans burst open, freeing Dean's erection, though Castiel's hands were yet wrapped around his back and head. Moaning in relief, Dean rutted desperately against the fabric of Castiel's clothing, adoring the friction and heat of contact.

"Who are you, Cas?"

Fumbling, Dean reached for Castiel's pants. The small part of him that yet rebelled against…whatever this was…had to ask Castiel for the truth even as the rest of him _demanded_ what was being offered to him freely.

" _What_ are you?"

The button gave way to Dean's awkward fingers, the zipper lowered, and Dean reached through the gap in Castiel's boxers to rub his hand over the cock within, to caress the soft skin sheathing hard flesh. Six years of half-conceived fantasies suddenly solidified and he knew, without knowing _how_ he knew, that he'd been dreaming of exactly this all along, that every time he'd woken in the night with a dream fading and his pajamas sodden, every time he'd masturbated, every time he'd come alone moaning to his room, Castiel was who he'd been imagining like a shadow that had always been just out of sight, just out of focus. Suddenly, everything was crystal clear. _I'll always take care of you_ , Castiel had said to him, and Dean had an epiphany as he understood how profoundly true that had been – not only had Castiel haunted Dean's wet dreams, Dean was _sure_ the blue-eyed boy had watched over him and protected him.

"Are you an angel?"

Castiel groaned as Dean gripped Castiel's cock and gave it a rough, inept stroke. "Good," Castiel murmured encouragingly, "that's _so_ …no, Dean, not an angel…but you're right, I'm not human..." Cold air struck the skin of Dean's thighs, his ass, his exposed hole as Castiel rolled his hips up. Dean had no idea what had happened to his jeans, that last lingering thread of sanity screamed that this was _not okay_ but Dean ignored it and eagerly spread himself wider to make way for Castiel. "Don't worry. You'll understand soon. But we only have until midnight, Dean. This _has_ to happen now."

"But—"

"If we don't, I will leave and you will never see me again."

"No!"

"Is that what you want, Dean?" A finger penetrated Dean roughly and he gasped at the dry friction and pain, stunned by the shocking, unfamiliar feeling of having intrude on his body. _Wait...I need more time...this is all so sudden..._ "Do you want to be alone, Dean Michael Winchester?" Emotions followed in such rapid succession that Dean could hardly process one before the next roiled him: relief as Castiel drew the finger back out and then eased in again, way smoothed by inexplicable slickness; pleasure as Castiel added a second finger and thrust into him hard, spreading the fingers apart within Dean's body despite the protest of tense muscles; urgent, all-consuming need that devoured Dean's last resistance.

"No, no, take me, take me with you, _please_ , Cas, _fuck_ that feels amazing, _please_!" All of his friends had talked about how great first times were but Dean had always doubted; what little he knew promised they must be awkward, must be uncomfortable, that the big secret no one shared was that no one had a good first sexual encounter. Either Dean had been wrong all along, or he was about to be the exception that proved the rule, because he could already feel bliss building behind throughout his body, unlike anything he'd experienced alone. He'd never before thought about opening himself to another, but as Castiel used a third finger to stretch Dean and prepare him hastily, it felt as natural as anything – no, it felt _perfect_ , like this was what he'd been waiting his whole life for. "Please," Dean whimpered desperately. " _Please,_ I need you _now_ , it has to be now…."

Growling possessively, Castiel pulled his fingers out, wrapped his hands roughly around Dean's thighs and roughly spread Dean wide. The head of Castiel's cock bumped against Dean's leg, smeared Dean with pre-come, brushed along his skin, rubbed against his cock, abutted against the area behind his balls, and finally settled against his loosened pucker dripping with magical wetness. _Has to be now, now, there's no time…_ With shocking ease, Castiel pushed forward, Dean's hole spread wide, and they both groaned as Castiel slid all the way within him. Leaning forward even as he drew his hips back, Castiel caught one of Dean's nipples in his mouth and thrust hard into Dean's body. Gasping, Dean thought he might shatter on the spot as pleasure assaulted him from all sides.

The world narrowed to himself, Castiel, and endless pleasure that somehow expressed itself in bursts of _blue_. Every drag of friction within him flared blue through his bones, every sound that leaked guttural from Castiel's mouth hit Dean's ears as blue, Dean's fingers tangled in bed sheets that felt blue, the drag of Dean's cock against the skin of their belly's splintered blue through the sensitive flesh, and the painful pressure of Castiel's fingers into the flesh of Dean's thighs promised blue marks permanently etched into his skin. Castiel's mouth teased blue bruises in a line along Dean's chest, his shoulder, his neck. If Dean hadn't felt so unbelievably, unspeakably good, he thought he would have been sick.

"Saved yourself for me," grunted Castiel, driving harder into Dean's body. The way was so slick the slide of Castiel's cock was effortless, the thick ridge below the head of Castiel's cock dragged perfectly over every sensitive spot within Dean's channel.

"Yes." Dean rolled his hips up further to allow Castiel to drive into him even more deeply. The only things in the world that mattered were his pleasure, Castiel's pleasure, and _blue_. The smell of blue, sex, and sun-baked wheat filled Dean's nose as he gasped, laboring for every breath.

"Wanted this." Castiel made the words sound like both a question and a vow.

"Yes," the word ripped from Dean, nearly a scream, as a change in angle caused Castiel to place sharp pleasure-pain on something within Dean that pulsed rapture in time to his racing heartbeat.

"Are you mine, Dean?" Compelled, Dean met Castiel's eyes. Castiel's gorgeous face was rapt, stiff with his focus, streaked with sweat that matted locks of near-black hair to his forehead in loops and swirls. His eyes were _impossible,_ glowing blue that cast shadows over his nose, crackling with energy.

"Yes!" Desperate, Dean's hips rose to meet every thrust, his hands reached for Castiel's cheeks, and lifted himself from the bed to bring their lips together so he could drink in the electric blue, drink in summer, drink in Castiel.

"Tell me!" Castiel snarled against his lips, smearing saliva over Dean's chin.

"I'm yours!" Pleasure wracked him, convulsed him, but still he didn't reach his climax. Mad with the need to find the peak of this bliss, Dean grabbed Castiel's body, pressed them together, rutted with all his strength against the cock thrusting in and out of him.

"Say my name!"

"Castiel—" He was so close, so incredibly close, his release just out of reach. It should be impossible for him to feel so good and not have come. If he could only do as Castiel said, tell Castiel the things he wanted to hear, maybe he'd be able to climax, be _allowed_ to climax. "—Jameson—" Castiel murmured wordless encouragement against Dean's cheek, kissed him fervently and mindlessly. Dean's pleasure ratcheted up yet again as he realized that Castiel was as lost and desperate as Dean was, that the blankness of Castiel's expression was the result of shared intensity, shared intoxication, shared insanity. "—Novak!"

Castiel slammed into him hard enough that the room resounded blue with the slap of skin on skin and Dean _shattered_ , hips bucking to rub his cock against Castiel's sun-heated skin as he spilled white between them. "Yes," moaned Castiel, "yes, _yes_ , need this, need you with me, need you…" Castiel jerked his hips back, pulled himself from Dean's hole and drew back as Dean writhed in bliss. Cold, loneliness and abandonment left Dean gasping even as his cock spurted again, and then Castiel was hovering over him, grabbing Dean's hand, bringing their tangled fingers to Castiel's red, dripping cock. Dean wasn't sure if he managed to grip and stroke or if Castiel simply laid their hands over himself and thrust against their palms. The distinction hardly mattered. Howling "Dean!" to the blue-washed room, Castiel came over Dean's belly, their semen mixing and pooling.

Somewhere, a bell tolled the first knell of midnight.

Frantic, Castiel dragged their joined hands to Dean's belly, smeared their fingers through their combined come. Moving on instinct, Dean weakly lifted his hand, brushed touch and streaked white over Castiel's face. Castiel smiled at Dean encouragingly. He couldn't remember ever seeing Castiel smile before, and he thought it the most beautiful thing he'd ever beheld. A dopey grin came over Dean's face as the second knell echoed through the room, vibrating through the all-encompassing blue. Dean skimmed over smooth skin to Castiel's lips and worked his come-smeared finger into Castiel's mouth. Castiel's smile widened, his eyes rolled back rapturously. Movements urgent, Castiel mirrored Dean, slipped his dripping fingers into Dean's mouth, and the combined flavor of their release assaulted Dean's senses. Dean had tasted his come before, too curious not to, and had found it bitter, the texture disgusting. This was nothing like that. He wasn't surprised that Castiel tasted of hot sunshine and brilliant green grass and stunning blue skies, but Dean hadn't expected the tantalizing counterpoint to that taste, the tang of sour and burst of sweetness, lemonade quenching the burn of Castiel's dazzling brightness, the scent of new growth and the earthy aroma a forest after a rainstorm. Together, they were perfect.

The bell peeled once more. Not understanding the source of urgency now that they'd both come, nonetheless Dean surrendered to the feeling and sucked on Castiel's fingers. Castiel was doing the same, drawing Dean into his mouth, licking along his thumb. Dean felt a surge of pleasure like a second orgasm, the bell rang and Dean blacked out – no, he blued out, drowned in Castiel's summertime, and he couldn't imagine ever wanting anything else..

When Dean woke up, he was lying on something wonderfully plush and soft. Even better, there was something strong enfolding his back, something hot. It had to be Castiel, and Dean contentedly snuggled closer into his friend's embrace. Fingers combed gently through Dean's hair, a hand pressed against Dean's heart.

"I'm so glad I don't have to do this alone," whispered Castiel. His voice was mingled relief, gratefulness, and nervousness. "Thank you for coming with me, Dean."

Dean opened his eyes. They lay on a four poster bed washed in bright sun hot on Dean's bare skin. _Bare skin_? It troubled him for only a moment before he let the worry go. There was nothing to be concerned about as long as Castiel was there. The sheets and bed curtains were deep royal blue glowing with the light, the walls a paler shade that matched perfectly. Every fabric was lavish, satins and velvets and silks; every rich-toned wood was polished until it shone; a large mirror caught their reflection, showed him Castiel curled around him, looking at Dean as if he was something remarkable. _Something, not someone_.

 _It's okay_.

"Where are we?"

"Home."

"I don't understand."

"Ms. Naomi told me that on my 18th birthday, I'd get to go home," Castiel shifted, rubbing their legs together. His breathed ghosted over Dean's skin comfortingly, keeping him calm, keeping him sane. "I was never like other kids, I couldn't relate to them, couldn't understand them, and they didn't want to be around me. Even my parents kept their distance. I was so _lonely_. Only Ms. Naomi looked after me, took care of me, explained to me _why_ I was different, explained to me what I was and what I had to do. She told me when I came of age, I'd get to go home to my real family, my real parents, my real home. It sounded crazy, but I _knew_ she was right. She taught me to do things, impossible things – magic. My birthright, she called it. I'm not a human, Dean, I'm a changeling"

"What, you can change your shape?"

"No, no – I'm fae. Ms. Naomi said my people have to be raised by humans, so as infants we're traded for mortal children – us to be raised on earth, the humans brought here to serve."

The explanation ghosted through Dean's thoughts and _fit_ as if he'd always known. Of course Castiel wasn't human, Dean had seen that from the first time they'd met. "Am I here to serve?"

"Yes," said Castiel possessively, squeezing their bodies closely together, rubbing his nascent erection against Dean's ass. "You're here to be mine, Dean. Ms. Naomi told me a ritual I could use to bring one mortal with me if I wanted, if the mortal chose me as well. I couldn't think why I'd want to do that until I met you. You _saw_ me, shared with me without asking anything in return, stared at me with those gorgeous green eyes. I had to be with you: your skin like summer, your easy smile and your generous spirit. It had to be you, Dean Michael Winchester."

"Had to be you, Castiel Jameson Novak," echoed Dean. Castiel nuzzled his neck, kissed him, growled and sucked a bruise into Dean's flesh.

"You'll never be able to go home."

Panic rose unexpectedly in Dean's thoughts, tightened his chest, clutched at his throat. _My friends, my family, I can never see them again, I don't understand, why not, why—?_ His thoughts died abruptly as he groaned, Castiel's teeth breaking his skin, saliva mingling with Dean's blood. Fingers once more brushed through Dean's hair, Castiel's palm kneaded soothingly down Dean's chest.

"But we'll be together forever."

"Okay," Dean whispered, surrendering to the comfort being offered, letting go of the thoughts that distressed him so. Why fight something that felt so good, so _right_?

This was where he belonged.

"Is it really okay, Dean?"

"Yes," Dean breathed, sighing out his last tension, melting against the wonderful bedding and the supportive body curled around his. "I'm yours."

"I'm going to take such good care of you, Dean." Castiel pet along his brow, combed hair away from Dean's eyes, licked over the bite and healed it, leaving only a sting as a reminder. "You're going to be so happy here. _We're_ going to be so happy."

* * *

End note:

...so there's a lot that I figured out about what's going on in the background in this story. (for example, WHY Castiel takes the approach he does...*pointedly stares in the direction of Ms. Naomi...instead of using more consensual methods - in case it's not obvious, which it might not be because Dean's clueless, Castiel uses Dean's true name and a whole lot of magical manipulation to get what he wants). I know there are some pretty gaping plot holes in its current form...mostly cause Dean really has absolutely no idea what is going on. I hope that wasn't too annoying, I tried to still make things clear...

I've plotted out an entire, decently long (30k words or more, I'd say) sequel/continuation of this. It would explain a lot of those mysteries and answer some questions. It'd also include explicit Cas-on-Dean non-con. And a very long period afterwards before it's "fixed," but they would ultimately end up together and happy (or as happy can be expected, all things considered). So, if either or both of those things would be a deterrent, don't subscribe/follow, but if you're curious where this is going and are okay with that as a warning for what is to come - I'm not sure when I'll write it but I expect that I will eventually, just to get it out of my head - I took some notes on my thinking - please do let me know, so I can gauge interest, and you might want to subscribe/follow this story, since I'll add the rest as further chapters rather than as separate stories in a series.

However, pending that, I do consider this stand alone and complete despite all the things that are still mysterious. :)

Thanks for reading! :)


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